You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

Chapter 232 The Enchanted Cat Reactivated (14k)

I rinsed it with hot water for a full ten minutes.

Lyon turned off the shower, and steam flowed into the pipes along with the hum of the exhaust fan.

He pulled a gray bath towel off the towel rack, roughly dried his hair, then wrapped the towel around his waist and walked out of the bathroom in his slippers.

The cold air from the air conditioner in the living room hit me, causing the water droplets on my skin to evaporate quickly, taking away the last bit of sleepiness.

He walked to the kitchen island, picked up the Coke he hadn't finished, and took a big gulp.

Most of the carbonation has dissipated, leaving only the cloying, sugary taste typical of American cola.

He placed the Coke on the island counter and stared at the open ledger.

"Category 1, thirty-four. Category 2, seventeen."

He mentally reviewed the figures Lei had reported, then flipped to the first few pages of the ledger and scanned again the names Lei had marked with crooked handwriting.

Physics teacher Costello has a leg ailment, but it doesn't affect his brainpower.

Tank mechanic Wot was an unexpected bonus. People like him, who are responsible for maintaining the power packs and suspension systems of Abrams main battle tanks in infantry divisions, are usually quite skilled.

There was also that old white guy who worked in Air Force logistics for twelve years, I think his name was Stephen or something. Including Ray, that made three veterans.

He closed the ledger and looked out the window.

The Seattle night sky was starless, with only the lights of a few office buildings in the distance appearing as a blurry orange-yellow glow under the low clouds.

Occasionally, a few piercing horn horns would sound downstairs, then be filtered into muffled vibrations by the double-paned glass of the Lyon Apartments.

It's sufficient for now, but it's still a bit lacking in the long run.

Three veterans could only maintain basic order in a small outpost.

If expansion to the entire community is required, at least five to eight more people with military training will be needed.

Moreover, all of these people come from the army and air force; none of them have worked in the military police or military police. They might be too heavy-handed when maintaining order.

He flipped through the ledger a few pages and came to the second category of the list marked by Lei.

These are people who used to have legitimate jobs but are now unable to work.

Frank, a porter with a broken hand; a cook with burns; and several elderly men who could barely stand but were once skilled technicians.

Lyon wants to create a homeless community.

However, under normal circumstances, it is impossible for homeless communities to exist in the United States.

Police will use anti-camping laws and misdemeanor arrests to dismantle the tents; the city government will use "public health" as a pretext to forcibly clear gathering points; and gangs will exploit homeless people as free human resources, extorting protection money, forcing them to transport drugs, and forcing them into prostitution, regardless of gender.

Three forces intersect and overlap, leaving no open space for the homeless to establish order on their own.

But things are different now.

On the gang side, the Blood Gang had been personally wiped out three times by him, and the remaining Blood Gang forces no longer dared to show their faces. Other slightly larger gangs had also gone into hiding, and the remaining emerging small gangs couldn't even gather enough automatic weapons, so they would never dare to mess with him.

On the police side, there's a Sterling stand.

She is the bureau chief, and she just stated clearly on the phone that she would provide political cover unless a major scandal occurs.

Needless to say, his colleagues inside the Blue Wall were also safe. Danfoss had already deployed patrol officers to set up checkpoints around the mosque, and with Sterling's instructions, no foolish patrol officer would dare to obstruct his operations.

The municipal authorities are even more amazing.

Mayor Reynolds's own homeless dumping program drives all the homeless people from other districts to the West End. He'd love for the West End to collapse, so he'll never send social workers or municipal sanitation teams to manage the homeless people here.

He essentially withdrew administrative power from the western district himself.

Triple vacuum.

The gangs dare not touch them, the municipal government doesn't want to get involved, and the corrupt police are busy helping old ladies cross the street.

Lyon stared at the cover of the ledger, a larger map already forming in his mind.

He doesn't intend to make money from this community.

The community itself doesn't generate much cash flow. The jobs these homeless people can do—car repair, carpentry, welding, and moving—are barely enough to maintain the community's basic operations.

He wanted to make big money, and there were more efficient ways to do so. A single burglary heist could yield more than the community's annual income.

What he wanted was a magnet.

A homeless community with stable food, shelter, and security will build a good reputation among the homeless population.

People go bankrupt every day in Seattle.

Today you might be a high school physics teacher, tomorrow you might be an avionics engineer laid off by Boeing, and the day after tomorrow you might be a chemistry PhD kicked out of the lab.

If these people hear that there's a place in the West End where they can get food, sleep, and use their skills, they'll come looking for it themselves.

Lyon only needs to set up a screening mechanism, let Ray and the homeless people who join later screen people, pick out those who are truly technically valuable, and then he can continue to package them up and send them to Alex to be shipped out of the United States.

The physics teacher Costello and the tank mechanic Wot we met today were just the first small fish in the net; there are many more to come.

In addition, there is the armed forces.

Lei is not the only homeless person who has served in the military.

Every year, large numbers of Navy, Army, Marine Corps, and Air Force ground crew members end up on the streets due to VA bureaucracy, opioid addiction, or post-traumatic stress disorder.

It is impossible for these people to return to normal society, but they can be reactivated in a community controlled by Ray Fong with stable food and accommodation.

Today we've already found a tank mechanic and an air force logistics officer; tomorrow we might find a retired Navy SEAL; and the day after tomorrow we might find a Marine Corps platoon leader who managed convoy security in Afghanistan.

These people aren't just for security guards.

This is a window of opportunity.

However, this window of opportunity will not last long.

Reynolds is a cunning old fox; sooner or later he will discover that the homeless in the West End not only failed to bring Sterling down, but actually brought order to the area.

The city's social worker vehicles and sanitation inspectors will definitely be back in the western district, and it will be too late to try and acquire land then. We must get the framework up and running now.

The first issue to address is site selection.

The most convenient option is Hassan's side.

In the open space of the 10th Street Mosque, the mutton soup stalls have already attracted a lot of customers. Although Hassan occasionally complains, he is generally cooperative, and the food supply chain has been established.

The logistical costs are lowest if the community is located next to the mosque.

But no.

He turned to the page with notes in the ledger, where Ray had drawn several marks, noting several non-Muslim vagrants who had mentioned being hostile to Muslims during the registration.

Mosques are ultimately places of religion.

Hassan's mutton soup and flatbread were part of his missionary work. Even though he said he "did not refuse non-Muslims" and was indeed doing charity for them, the people who went to worship did not see it that way.

Over time, friction is inevitable.

Most importantly, the mosque did not have any extra buildings for people to live in; there were only a few storage rooms in the backyard, and the warehouse on the west side was used to store religious items.

A homeless person can squat on an open ground and eat bread, but Hassan would never allow these people to sleep in a mosque, just as a normal person would never allow a pig to live in a church. It's inappropriate from any perspective.

What about St. Judy's Church, the church of Reverend Thomas?

Leon picked up the Coke can and shook it to get the last bit of soda inside.

Thomas's church is now packed with people. The old man is a good man, good to the core.

Once Alex gets his hands on that English paperback anthology in a few days, the old man's thinking will most likely be completely reshaped.

He will become a more organized and systematic activist who can combat American social Darwinism, and he should be willing to support his own arrangements.

Moreover, the church itself has a capacity to accommodate people; the nave, baptismal rooms, and backyard can squeeze in quite a few people.

Thomas also has a background as a surgeon, and once the resources of the illegal clinic are connected, the community's medical problems can be initially resolved.

"But it's too remote."

Lyon gulped down the last mouthful of Coke, the carbonation completely dissipated, leaving only a lukewarm sweetness sliding down his throat.

St. Judy's Church is located on the very edge of the western district, right next to the ruins of an abandoned chemical plant.

Within a few hundred meters, there are only closed warehouses and overgrown parking lots; there are no convenience stores, no gas stations, and no bus routes.

Homeless communities cannot be self-sufficient on their own. These people are not there to live as hermits; they must sell their skills to earn money in order to survive.

Painters paint walls for residents, carpenters repair tables and chairs for restaurants, and welders take odd jobs at auto repair shops. To compete with ordinary Americans, these homeless people can only engage in price wars.

At that time, some of the technically skilled individuals may be able to contact Big T to help introduce them to some gray-market businesses, or try to find some platforms for promotion. However, in the early stages, a significant number of people may still have to go door-to-door to find customers.

Who would hire these people to work if they were left in a dilapidated church several kilometers away from the city?

Without customers, the community won't survive the first week.

Lyon removed his hand from the Coke can and unconsciously tapped the marble countertop of the island twice with his fingertips.

"It must be close enough to the street, and there must be readily available accommodation."

Just then, my phone rang.

He glanced at the incoming call on the screen; it was David.

Lyon swiped to answer the call.

Before he could speak, a series of rapid, panting breaths came from the other end, as if someone was making a secret phone call, trying hard to suppress their voice.

"Feed? Feed? Is it that...that boss?"

"That guy on 12th Street, the one who gave me his number last time, do you remember him?"

"I'm David, the bald guy. Last time at Dr. Hank's, you told me to keep an eye on the 12th Street gang!"

"Remember."

Leon switched the phone to the other ear. "Go ahead and speak."

"Hey, my boss's awake. You know, the one who got his butt burned by that red-hot skewer at the clinic the other day, Bart, remember?"

"After I woke up, I discussed it with someone and told them that someone wanted to buy information about other gangs on the street."

"Aya said—wait a minute, I'll learn Aya's original words—"

The person on the other end of the phone cleared their throat and then adopted an extremely stupid, deliberately harsh tone.

"Sell it. If someone's buying intelligence on other gangs, then sell it to them."

"It would be better if all those little brats died. I don't care about any underworld rules. If those thugs die, I can pick up a couple more blocks of trash."

David regained his normal voice, "That's exactly what it means."

"OK."

Leon leaned back in his chair. "Tell me, how many new gangs have sprung up on 12th Street lately?"

"I've been wandering around the streets these past few days, and there are quite a few new gangs popping up on 12th Street."

"There's a group called the Red Claws, which runs a zero-dollar shopping spree. There are four of them who specialize in smashing down the glass counters of medicine shops to steal cough syrup."

"There's also a guy called Black Bones, who runs a car repair shop. He specializes in stealing Toyota and Honda tires and selling them to some Mexicans in the East District who are short of used parts."

"Anything else?"

"There's also a group of people who steal license plates. They take out a screwdriver every night and turn it around. I heard they can remove more than a dozen plates in one night and then sell them to people who make cloned cars."

"But those guys were really small, and they would hide whenever they saw someone wearing a helmet."

Leon leaned against the edge of the island platform, listening to David dumping information out like garbage.

Zero-dollar purchases, tire theft, license plate theft—these are all recurring activities in America's underprivileged communities, and their significance is perhaps no less than a bird defecating on the beach.

Just as Ya was about to interrupt, David suddenly lowered his voice.

"Oh right, there is one."

"The night at the 12th Street that was sealed off, the one that was vandalized by the police before, is called Psychedelic Cat or Pink————"

"Psychedelic Cat".

"Yes, yes, yes. It was sealed off for a long time a while ago, but nobody cared about it afterward."

"I saw a group of people sneak in a couple of days ago, and now those people are staying there at night."

"I went over to check again from the side road yesterday. These people tore off the seal on the back door, but they dared not touch the front because there are still patrol cars on the road."

"There were several newly moved gasoline drums and sleeping bags piled up at the back gate, and the iron fence in the backyard had been pried open with steel bars, probably for escaping."

"There are about six or seven people. They should be a gang that was recently formed."

, psychedelic cat.

Lyon's fingers tightened slightly as he gripped his phone.

That was the place where the leader of the group smashed things up. Fatty Z was arrested there. Later, the police station sealed it off, which is theoretically a sealed-off crime scene. It will not be unsealed until the case is completely closed.

It's been taken over by someone now.

The building where the psychedelic cat lives is a detached building, two stories high, with a brick-concrete structure and thick exterior walls.

The first floor is a large dance floor; if it's renovated, it can be used as a cafeteria and tool room.

The second floor is full of private rooms. If you remove the leather sofas and steel pipe stage, and put in bunk beds to turn it into a dormitory, it can accommodate at least 70 or 80 people, and if you squeeze in, it wouldn't be a problem to accommodate over 100 people.

There's a parking lot in the backyard; setting up a tent would double the size.

Most importantly, it's located in the neighborhood.

The two surrounding streets are lined with convenience stores, restaurants, and old residential buildings, providing a steady stream of customers. From here, homeless people can walk for ten minutes to reach the entrance of the residential area to pick up work.

When I was a patrol officer, I often received reports of "illegal occupation," but the reports were mostly from landlords or neighbors.

Who owns the psychedelic cat now?

This place was the scene of the crime that was sealed off. The landlord used to be involved in human trafficking, but he has long since fled.

No one called the police, so no officers responded.

Moreover, given the current security priorities in this neighborhood, the dispatch center will not issue a police report for something like "a homeless person breaking into a sealed-off nightclub".

If someone takes over this place, that means whoever takes it owns it—so why can't it be mine?

Lyon mentally went over the sentence.

Moreover, with Sterling backing him up, he could simply claim that he had only established a homeless shelter to control the rampant homelessness in the West End.

"The boss?"

David's voice came through the receiver, with a hint of uncertainty at the end.

"I've said everything. Is there anything else you want to ask?"

Where are you?

"what?"

Where are you now, at home?

"Yeah, it's the middle of the night, of course I'm here—"

"Go and keep watch outside the Psychedelic Cat's Gate for me."

"What? I'm fucking home!"

"I don't really care where you are exactly. I just need you to do me a favor. Go and keep watch outside the Psychedelic Cat's shop. I'll be there later."

David paused for two seconds, then a frustrated voice came through.

"Boss, I didn't eat dinner tonight. I had a quick and easy sandwich for lunch that was about to expire."

59

'

"What's the difference between you and a homeless person?"

"I guess it's because I still have the strength to take things from others."

'

"7

"Pay the information fee offline. If you leave from your home now and it takes you less than ten minutes to get there, I'll assume you don't want it anymore; I don't care."

"Ten minutes? Boss, there are no streetlights on 12th Street at night. It'll take me forever to walk there—"

"It's okay, you don't have to go."

'

""

David took a deep breath into the receiver, then exhaled in a slightly obsequious tone.

"I'll definitely go, but—the information fee, it'll be about—"

"Three thousand."

There was no sound from the other end of the receiver.

After about three beats of silence, David uttered a very soft word, his voice strained out from his throat.

"Holy shit."

Then Ya repeated it again, this time louder, as if to make sure she hadn't misheard.

"Boss, you said you'd take less?! Three thousand?"

"Three thousand."

"US dollars? Not pesos?"

"Would you like some Zimbabwean dollars?"

"No, no, no!! What do I want if not US dollars?! I have nothing else to ask for!"

David's speech rate went from rapid-fire to machine gun-like, "Boss, three thousand dollars, I just went ahead of you to keep an eye on the entrance of that nightclub."

'

"You're not going in to fight someone, and you don't need to sell anything, right? You're just really just looking, right? Even if you asked me to hand in another packet of heroin, I'd do it."

"No passing powder, no fighting, just watch the door and wait for me."

"No, boss, what kind of business do you run? I'll be right out, I'll be there in ten minutes."

""

There was a muffled thud on the other end of the phone, like David's foot hitting the bed frame when he sprang up from the bed.

Then came the indistinct shouts and curses from the eldest brother, Bart. You could vaguely hear things like "What the hell are you doing in the middle of the night?" and "Go to hell, the boss is the real boss."

Lyon hung up the phone, turned off the screen, and threw it on the island counter.

He glanced at the ledger one last time, closed the cover, grabbed the windbreaker from the back of the chair, put on his baseball cap and mask again, and pushed open the door.

As David ran breathlessly past the corner of 12th Street, he nearly tripped over a raised paving stone and fell flat on his face.

He grabbed onto a nearby utility pole and took a few seconds to catch his breath.

There were no streetlights on the entire street, except for an old-fashioned sodium lamp at the far intersection that hadn't been smashed by a homeless man, which cast an orange silhouette over the street.

The psychedelic cat was standing right across the street.

The two-story detached brick building, with its exterior painted in a dark purple paint that was popular a few years ago, is now mottled and peeling from being washed away by rain.

The front door was still sealed with the Seattle Police Department's yellow tape, its edges flapping in the night wind, but a faint candlelight shone from the windows on the first floor.

Sure enough, there was someone there.

David crouched down, hiding behind a telephone pole, his heart pounding.

"Oh shit."

He muttered a curse under his breath.

The boss gave him three thousand US dollars just for some information about street gangs and asked him to come here and keep an eye on things at the entrance at night.

This money is much better than collecting protection money.

But now, squatting behind a telephone pole thirty meters away from the nightclub, he suddenly felt that those three thousand dollars weren't so easy to earn.

There are only six or seven people in the house at night. If someone comes out to urinate and is caught, they'll definitely get a beating.

Although these people were just a small gang that had just been formed, they had a lot of members.

David squatted there and hesitated for about thirty seconds.

"If I just squat there, and the boss comes and asks how many people are inside, whether they have guns, and which room they are sleeping in, I won't know anything."

He licked his chapped lips.

"Won't you think I'm not worth the price?"

I imagined the scene of someone snatching three thousand US dollars back from my hand.

"Since we're already here, let's just take a look and leave."

He crouched low, crept around from behind the telephone pole, and, hugging the wall of the roadside grocery store, tiptoed towards the direction where night was short.

Every few steps, stop and listen to the sounds around you.

The night was short and the seal on the main gate was still on. Only a sliver of flickering candlelight shone through the crack in the door, so of course we didn't dare go through the main gate and went around to the back alley.

The iron fence in the backyard had indeed been pried open.

A rusty steel bar was bent into an arc, just big enough for a person to squeeze through sideways.

Next to the fence were several dirty sleeping bags and two red plastic gasoline cans. One of them was lying on the ground with the cap not tightened, and the leaked gasoline had dried in a small patch on the cement ground.

David squeezed sideways through the gap in the fence.

The back door has been completely destroyed.

The seal on the door frame was torn in half, with only a little bit of residual glue sticking to the door frame.

There was light coming from inside the door, not from a steady electric light, but from a yellowish light that was clearly candlelight, flickering on and off.

David pressed his back against the wall on the side of the door frame and peeked inside.

Inside is the first-floor dance floor of the psychedelic cat nightclub.

In the middle of the dance floor, there were three or four old mattresses on the floor, with colorful tattered tumblers and several bulging nylon woven bags piled on top of them.

In the corner sat several empty beer bottles and two buckets of uneaten ready-to-eat food, the edges of the can lids already covered with white grease.

There are six people.

Three people sat around a mattress in the middle of the dance floor, one lay in a corner wrapped in a baton and snoring, another leaned against the bar counter holding a beer bottle and staring blankly, and yet another squatted at the top of the stairs, using a screwdriver to pry something off the floor.

The three people sitting around the mattress are arguing.

"I said expansion bolts cannot be used."

A tall, thin white man wearing an orange reflective vest patted the floor next to the mattress.

He was wearing a dirty hard hat with a half-torn union sign stuck to the brim, and his shirt vest was so stained with oil that the stripes were no longer visible, but he was still wearing it, speaking with great conviction.

"The cement grade is wrong. The commercial concrete used for the floor of this building contains fly ash, which will cause the expansion bolts to break. Only chemical anchors can be used."

A short, chubby Black man next to me raised his beer bottle and burped.

"It's short nighttime here. What the hell is this chemical anchor bolt? What does 'chemical' mean? Are you trying to set up scaffolding here?"

"I'm explaining physics to you, you idiot. You're going to fix that damn ping-pong table to the floor, you have to play..."

Hole."

"I won't dig a hole, I'll just leave it on the ground."

"Put it on the ground? If the pool table tilts, you'll kick it and hurt your knee. If you don't have health insurance, Hank will have to stab your knee with a red-hot nail. Don't ask me to introduce Hank, I don't know him."

When David heard the name Hank, he instinctively covered his butt.

"I don't have health insurance."

The short, stout Black man took another swig of beer and mumbled, "My mom died of pneumonia. She said health insurance was a scam. I think she was right."

The person who was leaning against the bar, lost in thought, suddenly looked up and shouted, "Did your mother die of pneumonia? You said last time that your mother died of bronchitis."

"Pneumonia, bronchitis, they're pretty much the same. The key issue is that there's no medical insurance."

"Having medical insurance is useless; even if an ambulance arrives, you still have to wait in line."

The man in the vest continued banging on the floor, saying, "I'll give you apples, but the cement grade isn't high enough. Even if you screw O-rings into the expansion bolts, it's still pure garbage."

"I worked as a scaffolder in Milwaukee for six years, I'm not lying to you."

"What are you talking about?" The person leaning against the bar, lost in thought, clearly didn't understand.

"I mean the whole healthcare system is rotten. No matter how much medical insurance or various other insurances you have, it's useless."

17

"You used to work as a scaffolder?" The short, stout Black man glanced at him sideways. "Then how did you go bankrupt?"

The man in the vest paused for a second, then said, "The scaffolding collapsed because the expansion bolts were screwed into the wrong type of cement."

The person snoring in the corner suddenly turned over and muttered, "What bolts and bolts—it's all useless—America is doomed—because those damn politicians—moved all the manufacturing to—moved to—"

Nobody paid any attention.

The man squatting at the bottom of the stairs, prying at the floorboards, looked up, screwdriver in hand, his face full of confusion: "Do you think it's possible to remove the wooden planks on top of this bar counter?"

"I saw a video yesterday where a Mexican man picked up planks from a junkyard, made a table, and sold it to a white man for $400."

"Four hundred?"

The short, stout black man's eyes lit up. "Then hurry up and tear it down. Tear down ten floorboards, and we'll be rich!"

77

"Don't believe the videos. When I was on the construction site, the foreman made me haul old planks to the scrap yard every day. They only paid twelve dollars a ton for wood."

"That's a scam."

"No, the old wood has insect eggs."

"So you can't live with yourself selling wood with insect eggs to others, can you?"

"No, because insect eggs can bite. If I sell these and someone reports me, the police will come after me."

"What nonsense are you spouting? How much did you drink?"

David pulled his head back, covered his mouth, and almost burst out laughing.

I felt like I was watching a terrible sitcom, and the actors weren't even getting paid.

Pi even began to feel sorry for that guy in the bare vest; at least he had a decent skill, he just wasn't very bright.

Then he peered through the gap in the back door frame, trying to count whether these people were carrying guns.

Just then.

A hand reached out from behind and patted my shoulder.

David's hair stood on end in an instant.

She took a deep breath, almost cried out, and before she could even turn around, her legs had gone limp.

A hand wearing a black tactical glove covered the mouth.

Gray windbreaker sleeves, a black face mask, and a baseball cap pulled low over the shoulders—a pair of steel-gray eyes were looking down at him.

When David recognized those eyes, he felt as if he had been pulled back from the gates of hell.

—"

Lyon released his grip.

David gasped for breath, his stomach still trembling, and forced out a voice, "Boss, can you please make some noise when you walk? You've scared me to death."

Leon ignored him and glanced towards the back door of the nightclub: "What's going on inside?"

David paused for two seconds, then swallowed hard. "It's inside. I didn't see any long guns, not even a pistol."

"From what I overheard you talking, you must have all recently come together. You weren't involved in gangs before—and you probably aren't now."

"There's a skinny guy wearing a tank top who says he used to be a scaffolder from Milwaukee. And there's a black guy who's drunk and keeps trying to quit drugs without a plan."

That's all.

Lyon listened without making any comment.

Reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, he pulled out a small wad of hundred-dollar bills tied with a rubber band and placed them in David's hand.

David looked down, then looked up at Leon, opening his mouth as if to say something, but no sound came out.

He held the banknote up to his eyes, his thumb brushing against the edge, the paper exuding the unique, pristine feel of a new banknote beneath his fingers.

Thirty sheets.

"Boss."

David clutched the banknotes in his hand and then took a deep breath.

"Do I need to wait here?"

"Need not."

"Then I'm leaving. If there's anything else next time—"

I'll call you.

David nodded, stood up, and the iron fence in the backyard wobbled as he squeezed through it, a piece of his clothes being scraped off by a rusty steel bar, but he didn't even turn his head.

Lyon watched the flustered figures disappear into the alleyway, then turned his gaze back to the back door of the Psychedelic Cat Nightclub.

I had just stopped in front of the back door, raised my right hand, and the knuckles of my black tactical glove were just centimeters away from the door panel.

Suddenly, a muffled "thump" came from inside.

It was heavy, like something hitting metal, making the remaining sealant on the door frame tremble.

Then came a sharp, screeching sound as something scraped against the surface of the steel pipe, which lasted for about a second before stopping.

Lyon turned his head and peered through the gap in the back door frame.

The steel pipe that runs from the ground floor to the ceiling in the center of the dance floor on the first floor is still trembling slightly.

This steel pipe was a prop from a nightly short stage. Its base was welded to the concrete floor, and its top was welded into the steel beam of the ceiling.

A person was squatting on the ground next to the steel pipe.

The man was wearing a hoodie so dirty that its original color was unrecognizable, and the hood was pulled down low, obscuring his face.

He squatted on the ground, covered his forehead with his hands, swayed slightly back and forth, and muttered curses.

"Fuck—fuck—who the hell put this thing here—"

The short, stout Black man on the mattress next to him raised a beer bottle, looking smug: "That's a steel pipe. You bumped into it. You just got up from the mattress, took three steps, and then you bumped into it. I saw it all."

The man in the hoodie looked up, revealing a face flushed red from alcohol.

Ya lowered her hand from her forehead, revealing a red mark in the center with bruises around the edges.

"I know it's a steel pipe. What I'm asking now is, who put it here?"

"Short nights, boss?"

The short, chubby Black man shrugged, took a sip of beer, and said, "So this is a strip club. Where else would you put the poles if not on the dance floor, on your mother's grave?"

The person leaning against the bar, lost in thought, suddenly blurted out, "Your mother's grave should have medical insurance, right?"

"You motherfucker—"

'

The short, chubby Black man almost smashed the beer bottle over, but the movement was too big and he choked on it, coughing for a long time before he recovered.

The man in the hoodie ignored the two men's verbal sparring, moved his hand from his forehead, stared at the steel pipe in front of him, and his eyes were filled with a kind of anger that was gradually burning, fueled by alcohol.

He slowly stood up and slapped the tube hard with his palm.

The metallic hum echoed from the dance floor all the way to the ceiling.

"This thing is in the way."

He turned his head, his gaze sweeping around the room before finally settling on the tall, thin white man in the orange vest. "You, scaffolder."

The girl in the tank top, who was picking at the grease on the can lid with her fingernails and licking it, looked up when she heard this. "What's wrong?"

"Come here and take this thing apart. I hate these things the most."

He glanced at the man in the vest, then at the base of the steel pipe welded to the concrete floor, before continuing to lick the can: "Can't be disassembled."

"Aren't you a scaffolder?"

"The scaffolders are the ones who erect scaffolding, not the ones who dismantle steel pipes."

"What's the difference? Don't scaffolders deal with steel pipes?"

The man in the tank top paused for a moment.

He put down the can, looked up with an expression that said, "I'm being harassed by a mentally challenged person," and said, "Screw you, it's welded shut."

The man in the hoodie stared at the steel pipe for a few seconds; the alcohol made his ability to process information much slower.

Ya reached out and shook the pipe, but the steel pipe remained still.

"So, can this pipe be removed or not?"

"Screw you, can't you take it apart? Didn't I just say it was welded shut?!"

"What are you yelling for? I asked you twice and you still didn't answer clearly."

"My mom"

The short, chubby Black man next to me laughed so hard he almost rolled off the mattress, spraying beer foam all over himself.

The man in the hoodie, his face already flushed, turned even redder after being yelled at. He turned to the short, stout Black man, his voice rising sharply: "What are you laughing at? Aren't you a homeless person just like me? What right do you have to laugh at me?"

These words also drew in Jing, who was leaning against the bar in a daze. The latter slowly put down his beer bottle: "Hey, I'm not a homeless person, I'm just temporarily experiencing housing difficulties."

"You used to live in a garbage dump, so what excuse do you have for having housing difficulties?"

"The trash can is also a dwelling, it's just a bit drafty."

The person sleeping on the mattress rolled over and cried out: "————Damn it, the return of manufacturing to the mainland————It's all a lie————"

buckle.

Buckle.

A crisp knocking sound came from the back door.

Lyon finally couldn't stand watching these guys show off their intelligence anymore.

All sound in the dance floor fell silent at that moment.

The beer bottle of the short, stout Black man was suspended in mid-air.

The man in the tank top stood with his mouth open, his tongue, which had just been spewing profanities, frozen inside his mouth.

The man in the hoodie, holding onto the steel pipe, slowly turned his head, his swollen forehead gleaming in the dim candlelight.

He crouched at the top of the stairs, gripped the screwdriver tightly, and squinted towards the back door.

The back door was pushed open from the outside.

The door hinges made a dry, metallic scraping sound, and the cold wind from the back alley, carrying the smell of garbage cans, rushed in.

The candle flame flickered slightly when blown, its light and shadow sweeping back and forth across the dance floor.

A person wearing a gray windbreaker stood at the door.

His hat was pulled down low, his mask covered half his face, and his shoulders were so broad they almost filled the entire door frame.

He stood there, making no move, and simply scanned the six people in the room.

Those eyes, hidden in the shadow of the hat brim, revealed a steely gray devoid of any emotion.

The person paused in the dance floor for about three seconds.

Zha Guang vest is the first person to respond to this.

Her Adam's apple bobbed slightly, and she slowly placed the metal lid of the can on the ground, her movements very gentle, as if afraid that making a sound would anger the man in front of her.

Then Ya slowly stood up, rubbing her oily fingers on her bare vest a few times.

The man in the hoodie standing next to the man in the tank top finally came to his senses from the alcohol's haze.

He steadied himself by holding onto the steel pipe, tilted his head to look at Leon, his brows furrowed, and his swollen forehead made his expression even more comical.

Who are you?

Lyon shifted his gaze to the body.

The man in the hoodie stared at Leon for about a second and a half, then his gaze began to wander, eventually sliding down on its own. Aya's chin recoiled a few centimeters towards her chest, but she still stubbornly insisted, "I mean, we were here first. When you knocked, shouldn't you at least have asked if we could come in?"

"The door wasn't locked."

"Seal————"

"Didn't you already tear off the seal?"

The man in the hoodie closed his mouth again.

The short, stout Black man finally put down his beer bottle, looked at Leon, then at the man in the bare vest, and asked in a voice he thought was low but which everyone could hear, "Are you a cop?"

"I'm not a police officer."

Lyon paused for a second after saying that.

The short, stout Black man visibly relaxed, but then Leon added, "But this place is mine now."

"It's yours?"

The short, stout Black man looked as if he'd just swallowed an unpeeled egg: "This place is seized property; the ownership belongs to the municipality—"

"Are you a lawyer?"

"no."

"Then you have no say in property rights."

The short, chubby black man blinked twice, opened his mouth as if to say something in rebuttal, but after a moment's thought, he realized he didn't really have the right to rebut. In the end, he could only raise the beer bottle to his lips again, only to find that the bottle was empty.

Leon ignored him, pulled a palm-sized portable flashlight from his jacket pocket, pressed the button with his thumb, and a cold white light swept across the dance floor.

The beam of light first fell on the bar counter, where two wooden planks had been partially removed, revealing the rusty metal frame underneath.

The flashlight beam moved upwards and shone on the empty liquor racks behind the bar, where only a few dusty plastic cups and a dead cockroach remained.

Who dismantled the bar counter?

He squatted at the bottom of the stairs, holding up a screwdriver. "Me. The wood is valuable; I was thinking of selling it."

"How many did you sell?"

"—It's not for sale yet. We just pried open two pieces, and you came in before we even got them off the ground."

"Then you're lucky you're not angry."

The man with the screwdriver paused for a moment, then chuckled twice, but realizing that the other person wasn't actually laughing, he swallowed his laughter and casually stuffed the screwdriver into his pocket.

Leon swept the area with his flashlight again, but found nothing further, so he turned it off. The dance floor went dark again, with only the candlelight providing a meager source of light in the darkness.

"You six."

He gestured, "Stand up. Come here, all of you."

The short, stout Black man on the mattress hesitated for a moment, then slowly got up and casually placed the empty bottle on the ground.

The woman who had been leaning against the bar in a daze yawned and slowly walked over, one hand still in her pocket.

The screwdriver guy obediently stood up from the bottom of the stairs, tripped on the edge of the stairs as he walked, and tumbled and crawled to the mattress.

Zha, wearing a vest, stood the straightest. His occupational habit returned; when someone gave an order, he instinctively wanted to stand at attention.

The man in the hoodie finally stepped away from the steel pipe. He rubbed his forehead, looked at the steel pipe again, and then swayed back.

The person snoring on the mattress is still asleep.

Leon glanced down, then gently tapped the sole of his shoe with the tip of his boot. "Wake up."

The snoring stopped.

A face covered in stubble emerged from the roar.

He was in his fifties, with deep-set eyes and prominent cheekbones, but his eyes were surprisingly clear and bright. He didn't seem to be drinking or taking drugs; he was just plain hungry.

I propped myself up on the mattress, squinted to adjust my eyes, and then saw a tall, extra person in front of me.

"You are not one of us."

""

"no."

"Who are you."

"Your mom doesn't need to know who I am for now."

Leon rubbed his temples. "Tell me first, what's the deal with you guys? What do you do?"

The stubble-faced man looked at the man in the tank top, the man in the tank top looked at the short, fat black man, the short, fat black man looked at the man in the hoodie, who was still rubbing his head.

"never mind."

Lyon raised his hand to stop the impending chain of blame-shifting, "It starts with you."

Pointing to the bare vest, he said, "Name."

My name is—

'

"Forget it, no need to tell me your name. You're a scaffolder."

"Yes, I worked in Milwaukee for six years."

"Later, the cement number at the construction site was changed. I was in charge of checking it, but I had a cold that day and didn't notice. Then the scaffolding collapsed and injured two workers. The company blamed me, but I had asked for sick leave that day, and the company didn't approve it."

"Later I was fired, and because I was a white person, no one spoke up for me. So I kept looking for a job for eight months, and then... and then... and then..."

"And then you ended up sleeping on the street."

The woman in the tank top pursed her lips into a thin line and nodded.

The movement was very small; the chin barely tilted down.

Leon offered no words of comfort. He turned to the man in the hoodie, "You."

"I used to work in an Amazon warehouse."

"A forklift?"

"Move the boxes."

"How did it go bankrupt?"

The man in the hoodie sniffed. "I've been eliminated by Pi."

"reason."

"—I fell asleep on the shelf. Three times."

The short, stout black man almost burst out laughing again, but after being glanced at by Leon, the laughter caught in his throat and turned into a dry cough.

Lyon turned to them. "And you?"

"I used to sell used cars."

The short, stout Black man shrugged. "Later, the car dealership owner ran away because Ya sold the tampered car to the son of the deputy police chief."

"After we ran away, we were all killed."

"Then I found out that my social security record had been changed to show that I was deceased, and I couldn't change it back."

"I can't claim unemployment benefits, I can't find a job, and even when I go to my mother's bank account, their system shows that I am a dead person."

"I went to the social security bureau, and they asked me to provide proof that I'm still alive. How am I supposed to prove that? I said, 'Look, I'm still breathing!'"

He said he needed the original document, but when I asked what the original document was, he said he didn't know.

"I stood there for forty minutes, and finally the security guards carried me out."

The man with the screwdriver raised his hand, "It's my turn, it's my turn."

"I used to work as a bulldozer at a construction waste landfill."

"After the boss died, his son sold the company, took the money and went to Hawaii, and completely ignored us."

"We blocked the area for three days, and then Asia called the police."

The last person to be asked, who was leaning against the bar, shrugged and said, "I don't have much of a bankruptcy history. I've always lived in a dumpster."

"Always?"

"Not always. I lived under a bridge before, but there were rats there. The rats were so big that I felt like they could carry me away, so I moved."

Leon looked at the six people in front of him.

He's a tank top-wearing scaffolder, usable. He has skills, though he's not very bright.

The man in the hoodie was carrying boxes; he wasn't very useful, but at least he did some physical labor.

A short, fat Black man who sells cars; a social ghost whose social security account has been cancelled, but who used to work in sales.

The screwdriver guy, a bulldozer driver, a bit simple-minded, but he's also been through the wringer with big trucks.

The dumpster philosopher, pure waste, "temporarily housing-challenged person".

And there's that girl who just woke up on the mattress, she hasn't said a word yet.

"you."

Lyon pointed to the stubble-faced man. "What's his background?"

The bearded man rubbed his eyes with his palms, trying to shake off the last bit of sleepiness, then looked up at Leon.

"Me? Do you need a welder?"

"You used to be a welder?"

"Pressure vessel welding. Certified. TIG, MIG, and TIG welding are all available. We worked on Boeing's outsourced workshop for eleven years, until we moved the entire production line to Kansas."

Arden paused, his voice devoid of self-pity, simply stating, "I was already fifty when the layoffs happened, and nobody wanted a fifty-year-old welder."

"Especially in Seattle, the mortgage wasn't even paid off when the bank foreclosed on the house, and my wife took the kids back to Idaho."

"I lived in a shipping container for two and a half years before it was towed away by the port property management."

He paused for a moment, then added, "I just arrived here this afternoon. I heard there's a mosque nearby giving out food, and when I got there, the line already stretched all the way to 11th Street."

"I was too tired to queue, and then I saw a light coming from this building, and the door was open, so I came in and took a nap."

"At first I thought this was a temporary shelter."

"This will soon be a containment point."

The stubble-faced man blinked.

The person blinked.

Leon glanced at the hoodie's forehead, then pointed to the pile of empty beer bottles and grease-covered cans in the corner of the dance floor: "From this moment on, this place belongs to me. If you want to stay, you have to work, and I'll pay you. Those who don't want to work can leave now."

Nobody moved.

The short, stout Black man asked in a low voice, "What kind of work?"

"The renovation of the first floor of this building will begin today. The dance floor will be emptied, but the steel pipes will remain. The bar will be renovated, the floor will be swept clean, and all the trash will be removed."

"I'll take care of the plumbing and electrical work in the private rooms on the second floor, and you can put up the wall coverings yourselves."

"Those who can do the work will do the work, and those who can't will do odd jobs."

When Zha Guangxin heard "I'll figure out the plumbing and electrical work," his eyes lit up, but then he heard "You guys plaster the walls yourselves," and his brows furrowed: "Plate the walls? With cement or plaster? If it's going to be painted—"

"Use plaster casts. We'll discuss the details tomorrow."

The man in the hoodie rubbed the bump on his forehead. "Wait a minute. You said this place belongs to you, but it's seized assets. If you were a cop, wouldn't you—"

"I've already said I'm not a police officer."

The man in the hoodie's brain spun for two seconds, still buoyed by the alcohol, before he gave up trying to think. He nodded. "Okay."

Leon glanced at them again, feeling powerless to do anything. Damn it, how have these people survived this long? He really shouldn't have any unrealistic expectations of the intelligence of lower-class white people.

The stubble-faced welder stood up from the mattress.

After standing up, Leon realized that this person was actually quite tall, only half a head shorter than him. His hands, which had been holding a welding torch for many years, were clenched and closed at his sides, with a thick layer of yellowish calluses on the base of his thumb.

"You said you'd handle the plumbing and electricity."

Pi opened his mouth, his voice still a little muffled from the long sleep interruption, "You'll pay?"

"right."

Why?

"Because I'll be paying your wages for the work you do next."

The welder was silent for two seconds.

His gaze lingered on Lyon's mask for a moment before moving to those steel-gray eyes.

I tried to read something from the man's pupils, but I couldn't read anything.

"Daily salary?"

"one hundred."

"All meals included?"

"Bag.

""

"live?"

"Second floor."

The welder nodded.

I wasn't swayed by money, but by logic.

In this city, someone will make you work, provide you with lodging, pay you a salary, and even provide meals. This logic is so clear that it makes my chest feel tight, because this logic is supposed to be normal, decent, and everything that Ya has lost.

Now it's back, back from the mouth of a mysterious man who inexplicably appeared in an abandoned nightclub in the middle of the night wearing a mask, and it seems strangely just right.

"I stayed."

The welder bent down, rolled up the mortar on the mattress, shook off the dust, and then began to fold it.

The movements were slow, but the stacking was very neat.

The man in the tank top watched for a while, then rubbed his hands together and said, "Well, I can do that too. I can work for six hours, no, eight hours."

"I mean, the work, plastering the walls. If we're using plaster, I'll need a putty trowel, a scraper, and maybe some fiber mesh —"

I'll make a list for you tomorrow.

The man in the bare vest nodded vigorously, causing his safety helmet to slide forward slightly. He quickly straightened it and then stood next to the welder.

The man in the hoodie was a full beat slow to respond.

He looked at the man in the tank top, then at the welder, then back at Lyon, and thought, "What can I do?"

"Can you move boxes?"

"But there are no boxes available—"

"Trash, I mean, moving trash."

Leon sighed and pointed somewhat helplessly to the pile of empty beer bottles and cans in the corner: "Now, move them out. There are trash cans in the back alley."

The man in the hoodie opened his mouth, then looked down at the empty beer bottle in his hand, stared at the beer foam at the bottle opening for half a second, then put the bottle down and bent down to pick up the empty cans on the ground.

Seeing this, the short, stout Black man's lips twitched as if he wanted to offer some opinion, but Leon had already turned to him: "You used to work in sales."

"Yes, yes, yes."

"Do you keep accounts?"

"meeting."

Are you sure you can?

"I really can do math!"

Lyon glanced at him suspiciously.

"Then you'll be in charge of the registration for the next few days. Record how many people came in, how many people came out, who took how much stuff, and who was slacking off."

The short, fat black man's mouth was wide open in a grin.

I wasn't sure if this meant I'd been promoted, but it sounded important, so I puffed out my chest: "Yes, I'll remember. I have an excellent memory. When I used to sell cars, I knew all the dealership's inventory numbers by heart. You can name any one if you don't believe me—"

"Need not."

The screwdriver man raised his screwdriver again. "Then I—"

"Throw away the screwdriver."

The man with the screwdriver hesitated for about three seconds, then tossed the screwdriver aside, a crisp metallic clanging sound coming from the ground.

After throwing down the glass, he looked at Leon blankly and asked, "And then?"

"You used to bulldoze."

"Yes, but there are no bulldozers here."

"The bar was only half dismantled, right?"

"Yes, I just pried off half of those two wooden planks at the bar on the first floor."

"Disassemble those two pieces first. Use a pry bar, not a screwdriver. Someone will bring the tools tomorrow."

The man with the screwdriver turned to look at the bar, his eyes shining, as if he had found his purpose in life.

The trash can philosopher yawned, leaning against the dance floor pole. "Me?"

Lyon glanced at it.

What can you do?

"I will remain optimistic."

"Get out."

"It's a joke, it's a joke."

The dumpster philosopher surrendered, raising both hands. "I can bake bread."

"Have you studied it properly?"

"No. I used to rummage through the trash in the alley behind a bakery. The hot air from the oven's exhaust fan was really warm, so I slept in one of the trash cans there for six months."

"The baker starts work at four in the morning, and sometimes he takes pity on me and throws me his burnt baguettes."

"Then one time, Ya got drunk and didn't come, so the boss grilled it himself. But the boss didn't know how, while I watched him grill it every day until I learned how, so I helped him grill it for a day."

"Then what."

"Then the boss fired the baker and made me take over."

"I worked for four months until the health department came for a surprise inspection and found that I was living in Bread Short Lane."

Lyon remained silent.

"What's your name?"

"Call me whatever you want."

"Okay, starting tomorrow, you'll be in charge of cooking. We'll convert the bar area into a kitchen."

"As for hygiene—since you're already living here, it doesn't make much difference."

97

The dumpster philosopher gave a genuinely unsettling smile.

Lyon surveyed the dance floor: "From this moment on, you six..."

He looked at the welder and asked, "What's your name?"

The welder placed the folded welding torch on the mattress: "Just call me Old Welder."

"Okay. Old Han will temporarily take charge of you five."

"6

"The dance floor must be cleaned by 10 a.m. tomorrow. All trash must be moved to the back alley."

"Throw away the old mattress if there are bugs inside; keep it if there aren't. No piling things up in the second-floor hallway. Understand?"

He raised his hand while wearing a tank top.

"explain."

"If the steel pipes also need to be cleaned—"

"Don't touch that damn steel pipe!"

"clear."

Lyon pulled his hat down further, turned and walked out of the night.

He took a deep breath of the night air, shook his head to clear his mind of those idiotic conversations, and then walked out of the alley without looking back.

The night wind made the remaining half of the seal on the back door crackle and pop.

>